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CHAPTER XXXVI

At ten o’clock in the morning of Tuesday 16th May, in the very best chamber of Gretna Hall, Mary awoke. She opened her eyes, studied the heavy oak in the ceiling, the curtains framing the bed – noted the tartan festoons – and started to smile.

So she had done it. Little Mary Dorothea had actually done it, and – oh! – was it not bliss? Turning on to her back, she ran through that roll call: those familiar names of poor ladies bewitched and then thwarted – sent up a prayer for their futures – and then rejoiced in her own triumph. For had not she, too, faced every obstacle? Had not she too been expressly forbidden? Yet she alone, only Mary, knew victory.

Her husband moved in the depths of the bed, then. Mary propped herself up to study the manner in which he slowly reached consciousness: saw that, even in sleep, his face crinkled with happiness. She kissed his dear lips before he had quite come to.

‘Ah.’ Blindly, Ned reached out a hand. ‘That’s right,’ he murmured; pulled back, beholding her now. He stretched first, then smoothed the wild curls from her forehead. ‘You came after all.’

‘You cannot have doubted.’ She nestled into his shoulder, looked about and drank in the sight of him, bare-chested beside her – as if witness to a miracle.

‘But of course!’ Suddenly, he was all matter-of-fact. ‘Every second of the journey: had you asked to turn back – though my heart would have been broken – I should have obliged.’ He ran a hand through her hair. ‘It felt, always, almost too much to ask of you. Now, having got my own way in it—’

‘Which you, sir, are well used to!’

‘That may be true.’ He shrugged and smiled down at her. ‘Nevertheless, I hereby pledge that I will always be grateful.’

‘Even when we are long married, and I am no more in your eyes than a good piece of furniture?’ Mary was sceptical. ‘Men do rather tend to fall into that sort of indifference.’

‘Not this one.’ Ned turned on to his side, extended a forefinger, touched under her chin and slowly – so slowly – began to draw a line down to her breast bone and then – ah! – even beyond. ‘I shall never not feel gratitude for this.’

She gasped as he stroked her.

‘Good morning, Mrs Knight.’ He spoke softly.

‘Husband,’ Mary returned, though she could hardly speak for the heat of her skin.

‘I hope you slept the sound sleep of the respectably married woman?’ He was whispering now in her ear.

She shivered – ‘Not exactly’ – and started to wilt.

‘Even after a journey such as that one!’ Ned was up on his elbow. ‘Forty hours or more in a coach not enough for you? For one who presents as a rosebud, you are made of some steel, madam.’

Mary giggled. ‘Oh, I confess to being perfectly shattered, sir – what with one thing and another – if the thought of that pleases you. I meant more that I do not feel quite respectable.’ She sat up too and, though it was a bit late for modesty, pulled at her nightgown, which had drifted way past her shoulders. ‘Can it really be true’ – she fiddled with the ribbon up close to her throat – ‘that all it takes is for that peculiar blacksmith to bang at some metal and—’

Ned tipped his head back and guffawed. ‘What a ridiculous nonsense it was! And how very pleased the man was with his own great performance.’

‘He might have washed his hands first,’ Mary grumbled. ‘Of course, I chose to wear my best pink for “my wedding” – such as it was – and now it’s covered in smuts and my gloves are quite ruined.’

‘Oh, my love, what have we done?’ Though the facts of the past days were frankly appalling, still he was only amused. ‘Can you believe it? Running away in the night! Careering by coach to this wild, foreign country! Do you know, I do believe I have actually slept with your maid …’

Mary shrieked. ‘She guards me like Cerberus!’

‘And to top it all off, we said our vows in a forge , of all things.’ At last, he became serious. ‘I am sorry, my darling. You deserve so much more.’

‘Believe me, I want for nothing.’ She sighed happily as she laid her head on his chest. ‘For I am now Mrs Ned Knight of Chawton Great House! And I cannot wait until we at last cross that threshold.’

‘One other stop first, my love.’

Mary flung her head round and stared at him. Though she could envisage a time at which his habit of scheming without previously sharing the details might yet prove irksome, now she could only marvel. This expedition must already have taken some weeks in the planning, and there was more?

‘My brother William has agreed to marry us properly – in the Steventon church where my dear Grandfather Austen was once the well-beloved rector. So much of our history has been played out in that dear place. My Aunt Jane was baptised in its font.’

‘A credential indeed!’ And how delightful the thought that Mary was now a part of such an extraordinary family.

‘So, charming though this sojourn may be’ – he waved his arm around the dark, gloomy room – ‘we must get there post-haste. Your father is quite likely to attempt some legal challenge to a Scottish marriage – do not worry!’ He pressed a finger to her lips before she could protest. ‘He cannot. But still, knowing him, he might try.

‘I shall not rest until the moment when we can repeat our vows before God – whom even Sir Edward must accept as a much higher power.’

Mary struggled to imagine her father conceding to any being at all, temporal or celestial. With Right always on his side, there was never a need for it.

‘In short, we must linger no more.’ Ned rose and, with his long stride, crossed over the room. ‘You must write another note to your father, and I to his wife.’ He pulled on his undershirt. ‘Inform them of the fact of our marriage. Beg their forgiveness again.’

He wrenched open the curtains and set about collecting the clothes that had been cast off without care the previous evening. Once again and already, Ned was returned to himself: restless and active.

Meanwhile, Mary stayed just where he had left her: leaning back on the bolster; staring at the pale, northern sky; watching the tops of the trees sway in high winds – and felt her heart sink. From the warmth of that bed – host to such joy – the world looked irresolute, and so very cold. And now heavenly fantasy must make way for more awkward reality.

What sort of welcome could they expect to receive? She thought of her father and mother – they would need time to recover from the shock; her brothers, who, though they might pretend otherwise to their parents, would be secretly thrilled. They had always loved Ned.

But there were so many others besides: friends of both families; neighbours in Kent who had once thought her demure. The villagers of Chawton, whom she must somehow befriend even as they learned of her shame. And – but of course! – she must soon face Miss Austen: dear Aunt Cassandra, in her sweet corner cottage. How Mary had once thrilled at that good, Christian lady’s approval! How she would loathe her disapprobation. E’en still, she must prepare for it.

And – oh! – Mary thought, for the first time since the adventure began. Oh, what have I done?